I just spent the better part of an hour being treated to a stream of consciousness as only a nonmedicated schizophrenic can dish it out.

Today is my last day in my first week as a Kindness Investor (yes, I’m hooked. I’ll be back again in May). I had originally intended to try my husband’s idea and go down to the McDonald’s in the nearby Wal-Mart to find a recipient.
But first I had to make a deposit in the bank two blocks from my house. Actually, it’s across the street from the McDonalds where I met Michael B. (Day 68). When I left the bank I saw this gentleman sitting on a park bench. I needed to run home and get my ten. I decided if he was still there when I got back, he would be my recipient.

Well, he was gone. I played a hunch he hadn’t been waiting for the bus, so I decided to walk east on Madison towards a little public square where sometimes the homeless tend to congregate. Sure enough, he was sitting there.

“Are you the man I just saw sitting up the block about a half hour ago? Across from the bank?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Oh good. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Yes.”

I plopped down, careful to keep his bag of newspaper scraps and black canvas backpack tied together with several belts between us. I asked him point-blank if it would be ok to give him a ten-dollar bill.

“Well sure,” he said. “It’s always ok to give me ten dollars. Do you want me to do something for it?”

It was the perfect opening. I started to explain about Reed and the Year of Giving blog. However, after about three seconds he interrupted me.

“I do mostly art. It’s my gift. It gives me peace.” He had taken out a scrap of paper. It looked like the back of a checkbook, with the calendar year printed on one side. He folded it in half and taking a pen from his backpack, started to draw on it.

“All the power is from God. Life is an adventure. Basically I get my peace from the artwork. God gave me this gift to give me peace. I’m a multimedia artist. Do you know Julie Bell? Frisette? Bell does science fiction. They’re good. They’re some of my favorites.”

I didn’t interrupt. Probably what I had to say wasn’t going to make much sense to him anyway. Instead, I paid attention to what he was drawing. I saw a few sweeps of what looked like long hair, so I thought perhaps he was drawing me as a way to impress me.

Finally he held it up. “Judas Iscariot,” he pronounced. Well, I’ve been called worse.

“Is that who you were…”

“No, John the Baptist,” he corrected himself. “See?” He pointed out the fierce gaze in the eyes on the paper, which contrasted oddly with the artist’s own deep brown eyes. His weathered face appeared to be about sixty as his hand went back to drawing, and his mouth back to talking. “John the Baptist. Always telling the truth. That’s what he did. So tell me your story? What were you saying?”

I got another three seconds into the saga of YOG when he broke in again. He’d added a helmet with a flag and horn, and a pointy beard. “Kubla Khan. Fu Man Chu. Or maybe a Knight. I draw like this. It’s called layering. You know about layering?”

This was basically the rhythm of our conversation. He would free associate off of some word I’d just said, eventually coming back to asking me to finish my story. Finally I started asking him questions. I figured he was a vet. He told me he was in special forces and was in Desert Storm. Before he got out of the military he was doing peacekeeping work in Afghanistan. I’m telling you the short version. There was a lot of meandering around the inner terrain, if you get my drift, but I suspected those two bits of information had some validity.

He’s from Chicago, although he claims to have lived all over the country, gone to countless high-end schools, graduated from top art institutes. He not only draws. He writes, takes pictures and is a percussionist. He has a very high IQ. How high? Nobody would tell him. But he went to Montessori, he told me, as if that were proof in itself. He stuttered and stumbled over his words, and sometimes sounded to me like a child at play, boasting in imagined exploits.

I started to feel a little motherly towards him. Who knew where he was? Who was reaching out to him? He has children he claims he sees now and again.

“How do they find you?”

“Oh, they just do.” A lot of his answers were like that. Vague and mysterious.

“Do you ever go over to Hines?” Hines VA Hospital is just a few miles from my house.

“I’ve been over there. I’ll go back sometime,” he said nonchalantly. But I doubt it. I don’t think he’d take well to anyone offering solutions so unmanageable to a man in his condition as a roof over his head, medications he’d have to take daily, a pension that would make him a target for robbery. He looked very fit to me, and handsome in a rugged sort of way. He probably manages street life as well as can be expected.

“So what are you going to do with the ten I gave you?”

“I’m going to buy art supplies. Paper and crayons.” He pulled some crayons from his backpack. “See these here? They’re cheap, but I’m going to use them to add texture to this picture.” He started applying shades of gold and green.
“He has a very warm aura, doesn’t he,” I commented. I was beginning to think he was drawing a self-portrait, because he seemed to me warm and likeable, despite his mental illness.

“Yes! You can see it, can’t you? What do you think that is there,” he said, pointing to the throat.

“It looks like water to me.”

“He’s rising from the water. He was probably an Aquarius. I like white water rafting.”

We shared an unexpected moment of silence. Then…

“Life’s an adventure. I like parasailing too. Hang-gliding. Gliding in planes. The planes, gliders you know, have no engines. They glide over the mountains and it’s quiet and I sang to my girlfriend up there.”

I took his picture holding the drawing, because he didn’t want people to see his broken teeth and uneven beard. He handed me the drawing as a gift with a message written on the back. It reads:

Rose,

My bibliogenetic is God’s Tool engraven image Artisian, Well of Faith and Brush of Great Gift to myself, to others. Visual Applause.

Johnny Flash

I walked home thinking of him singing to his girlfriend in the wild quiet above the world. I wondered what he sang to her. I hope she remembers him. I know I will.

A 6 foot 2, mid-forties man walks around the living room, adorned in tattered army fatigues and tennis shoes. He looks tired and antsy as his eyes quickly jet around the room. He just finished sweeping the floor and talks to the staff person on duty. “Yeah, okay. I’ll take out the trash.”

It’s Sunday and chore time for all the residents (about a dozen) at this house – an adult home for the mentally ill in Pacthogue on Long Island, New York. I wanted to help, but got the feeling chores are part of the structure and not to disturb it. I later found out that “John” (he declined to provide his name or be photographed) is a Gulf War I veteran from NY who had a breakdown and never recovered. His parents live nearby and visit him fairly often, which isn’t always the case in the adult home. Some residents only have each other as friends and family.

I wasn’t going to be there long, so I decided to just go for it and ask John if he’d accept the $10 for the Year of Giving project. “Well, I dunno,” was his initial response. But upon assurance from the staff person Rita, John agreed to accept the money. When asked what he plans to do with the money, he was reluctant. “Well, I’m not sure yet, why, what does it matter? Well, I might save it, might give it to my mom.” It seemed like a lot of money to him and he didn’t want to blow it all at once.

In terms of what he needs or what people could give him, John didn’t feel comfortable with that. So I guess what I would offer is that you don’t dismiss people right away if they seem a little different – you never know their story. A little tolerance can go a long way. And if you are so inclined, there are many adult homes around the states who are underfunded and in need of volunteers, not to mention various veterans’ causes.

And thanks, it’s been an interesting experience being a Kindness Investor!

A picture of Bob from my original encounter with him a year ago. (Photo: Reed)

Tomorrow will mark exactly one year since I met Bob on the basketball court near the intersection of 17th and P Streets in DC. Draped in layers of clothing and blankets Bob made me very nervous. I remember his hands disappearing under the garments several times as he erratically moved closer to my face calling me stupid. “Was there a weapon concealed beneath the sea of fabrics he wore?” I thought to myself as I held my ground.

It turns out that Bob suffers from mental illness and probably doesn’t pose a threat to anyone. I have seen him a few times since our original encounter; however, I hadn’t been able to really talk to him until last night. It was just before midnight as I headed home from a dinner at Birch and Barley on 16th Street with an old colleague in town for the week.

“Oh, yeah…you were the one who writes the stories,” he told me after I reminded him that I had given him $10. “Well, ok,” he began to say nervously, “So, how have things been with you?” I gave him a quick update on me and then tried to find out what he has been up to.

He was dressed in the exact same sweatshirt and torn slippers that he wore a year ago. The aluminum foil, rags and plastic bags that covered his head were gone; however, he now had a small swatch of aluminum foil covering his nose. It was held in place by a rubber band that wrapped around his head, forcing the skin of his upper cheeks toward his eyes.

I watched as he shot from the foul line. Like my earlier encounter he sank basket after basket always shooting with just the right hand. In his left hand he held a newspaper, bottle of water and the corner of the grey standard issue homeless outreach blanket. His twelfth attempt wasn’t successful. “That wasn’t a good shot,” he said as he released the slightly deflated ball, “I’m not concentrating.” I apologized and offered that he probably missed the shot because I was talking to him. He says that he believes that he has made 20+ one-handed shots from the foul line this century. That doesn’t compare to his record of lay-ups in a row which he claims to be approximately 2,900.

The evening was definitely worthy of a warm jacket but the still air and bright light from the moon’s last quarter phase helped mitigate the temperature. He seemed to be shooting a little hastily, albeit every time placing his toe exposed slippers in the exact same location.

“I think there is about four or five specific movements that I do and I try to do them exactly the same way every time in order to make a basket.” He went on to explain that the key is to add a little bit of top-spin to the release.

Another photo from my original encounter with Bob in 2010.

I stood in silence and watched him shoot. He’s truly gifted at being able to reproduce the same shot. One of his attempts misses and I take the opportunity to ask him about the $10 I had given him. I actually never asked him what he was going to use it for so I thought I would try to take the moment to find out. He didn’t recall very well, after all it has been a year, but he said it probably went toward some food or bus fare.

My question about money must have triggered something in his head. “Do you have a few dollars that you could give me,” he asked not taking his eyes from his target. The shot missed and he walked over to retrieve the ball next to his cart holding his belongings. I reached into my pockets and found some coins. “I hate to ask you but I need to add a few dollars on my Metro card.” I pulled a five dollar bill from my wallet and placed it in his hand.

Shortly after I thought I should leave. It was now close to 12:30 in the morning and I needed to get up early. I shook his weathered hand and told him to take care of himself. He returned the pleasantry and continued shooting baskets. I watched him shoot as I excited the court. He made three in a row before he slipped out of sight.

I was over in Southwest picking up the autographed baseball that the Nats donated for the fundraising auction when I decided to find somebody in the neighborhood to give my $10 to. I first approached a female crossing guard who was braving the cold to make sure the intersection at First and M Streets was safe for school children. Although she said she really liked the idea of the Year of Giving, she politely declined saying that as a city employee she could not accept any money.

Charmaine suffers from various illnesses and alcohol dependency.

I drove south on First Street a few blocks and found Charmaine walking down an ally near First and O Streets. Dressed in a sweat suit, covered by a white robe and black leather trench coat, she was making her way west down an empty alley holding a plastic supermarket bag.

The 55-year-old told me that she was originally from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. She has a son and a daughter and five grandchildren.

“I get Supplemental Security Income in the form of disability. I suffer from pancreatitis, hepatitis c, high blood pressure, and a chronic breathing disorder,” she told me. “I also am battling depression and suicidal tendencies; I have schizoaffective disorder.”

It was about 3pm and I was curious about where she was going since she was still dressed in her robe. “I just ran up to the corner store (I later found out that she went to the Friendly Food Market that didn’t look so friendly) to get me some more beer; you can probably smell it on my breath,” she said admitting that she probably shouldn’t be drinking because of the pancreatitis, but she struggles with alcohol dependency. “I get two Keystones for $1.25,” she told me pointing to the white plastic sack she was clutching in her right hand. I had a feeling she was going to tell me that she was going to use the ten dollars for beer too, but she had another answer. “I’m gonna get me some food, soap and toilet paper; I don’t got no toilet paper to wipe my ass with,” she said showing me her toothless smile.

We were interrupted by a guy who was getting belligerent with us. He had seen my SLR camera and took an unwanted interest in us. I quickly tucked the camera back in my bag and barked back at him to leave us alone. He kept on taunting us for a few minutes and then walked away. “You gotta be careful,” Charmaine admonished, “a young boy was shot and killed just one street over earlier this week.” I got the message loud and clear. I gave Charmaine a quick hug, said goodbye, and bee-lined it back to my car and got out of there.

This is Maggie who received my $10 on 10-10-10...her story coming soon on Day 300! (photo: Reed)

Hopefully you participated in the 10-10-10 Give a Stranger 10 Bucks Day yesterday…if not, why not go ahead and do it today. It is a three-day weekend after all for many folks, so I’ll let it slide!

Today’s recipient ranks up there with one of the more memorable people that I have met.

You might remember back on Day 245 I came across a rather odd individual walking around making extremely loud cat meowing noises. On that day he was walking around with a crazed look in his eyes as he meowed. Really loud! Occasionally he would turn 180 degrees from his slow sloth-like walk and bark something like, “Can’t you find the mice?”

So exactly 40 days later I am walking around town when I hear this loud banging noise. I couldn’t quite place it but it sounded like someone was banging a wrench or something against a bunch of steel pipes. Not seeing where the noise was coming from, I went along my business and went into a café to pick up some dinner for that evening. When I left I walked across the street and found “Crazy Cat Man” sitting on the sidewalk with a series of bottles in front of him.

Illi sits playing tunes on a variety of bottles in front of a DC Starbucks. (photo: Reed)

Although he definitely made me uncomfortable the first time I encountered him, I felt a little better this time since he was in front of Starbucks and there were several people who were nearby “enjoying” his free concert.

I asked him what his name was and he replied something that sounded like “Illi Lixsis.” I asked him to spell it and he said that there was “not a proper spelling in our language.” So he grabbed my pen and notebook and began to write his name. To me it resembles something closer to a hieroglyphic than a name. He even included a short written narrative of the composition of the name. In the photograph below you can see the symbol he drew and the explanation he included around it. I’m going to call him Illi.

Illi said he enjoyed playing beautiful music on the bottles. He pointed to his “snare drum” which was an aluminum can. He also had a rattle, made of an empty Nestle water bottle with coins inside, a Perrier bottle, and a variety of beer and wine bottles. “This is the magical wand of Jehovah,” he explained pointing to metal rod.

New England Statesman Daniel Webster (1782-1852)

Our conversation took a path of its own. Illi’s thought process sometimes was erratic but I just went with the flow. “What you are doing is kind of like Daniel Webster – only with words,” Illi suggests. “But Webster was into bestiality.” How does he know that I’m not into bestiality? That was a joke! Seriously, I didn’t know how to respond so I just stayed quiet.

Illi changed the subject. “I grew up in New Hampshire. My 6th grade teacher, Mr. Courier, had been in the CIA during the Carter administration. He was originally a nuclear physicist, but as an agent he was forced to learn all kinds of things. He spoke several languages and …” I am not sure what else he said about Mr. Courier but he related to me at some point how he, I mean Illi now, was into linguistics, computers, visual arts, electrical engineering, etc.

He had a particular interest in necromancy. He described it as an ability that allowed the dead to pass on to the next servitude of life. “Anything you do,” he said, “is then used by your ancestors as a means to get into the next life…but many people get captured.” I probed a little more about what he was referring to but didn’t understand his response. He did show me his birth certificate though during this exchange. I didn’t catch his last name, but his birth given first name is Mark.

Photo of Illi's rendition of his name. He wrote this in my notebook. (photo: Reed)

Illi is well educated, he certainly knows a lot about certain subjects. His way of communicating it is unique and proved challenging for me to follow. He talked about palindromes, his intense fear of many things in the world and his dislike of Stephen King novels. He also is a big fan of animation. His favorite TV show, a 90s MTV show called Æon Flux, and favorite movie, Jim Henson’s 1982 Dark Crystal, are both animated.

Another random factoid he shared was that his brother Dave sold his 26,000 issue comic book collection to pay for his college. Interestingly enough, Illi said he memorized every title that his brother owned. Sounds a little like Joey’s savantism.

As for the $10, the 35-year-old said he was going to “take a break.” Take some time off from his government job. Oh yeah, and he didn’t want me to take his photograph because of his government work. “Photos are stupid anyway,” he said. I had taken one photograph from a distance before I walked up to him that I have included here. You can not see his face and the photo came out quite blurry due to low light and my sub-par photographic skills.

Like I said earlier Illi, or Mark as it may be, seems to be highly intelligent in some areas. He’s socially awkward though and either is homeless or doesn’t maintain generally accepted hygiene. He sat the entire time in a yoga-like stance with his bare feet folded up like a pretzel. I’m glad I stopped, but I am not sure that I connected with him. I would love to hear his perspective of our encounter.

I invited Bob to a coffee at a nearby coffee shop so Bob could sit down and rest his back. (photo: Reed)

I originally walked right by Bob who was holding himself up by leaning against a telephone pole and supporting the rest of his weight with a walker at the corner of Connecticut Avenue and R Street. I crossed the street but couldn’t stop thinking about what his story was. I turned around and went back and placed ten dollars in his hand.

“I’ve got a bad lower back which is inoperable,” Bob shared. “I fell down a flight of stairs in 1977…each year it gets worse.” There was something special about Bob, although at first I couldn’t put my finger on it. When I first walked by him I assumed that he was panhandling to get some money to buy booze. But I would soon find out that that couldn’t be further from the truth as he’s been sober for nearly 25 years.

Part of me doesn’t want to write anymore and just tell you to watch the video I shot of him. It’s one of the most moving videos I have filmed of all of the people that I have met. Bob opens up to me about being adopted, an upbringing void of love, 30 years of addiction to alcohol and a slew of drugs, family hardships, and 20 nervous breakdowns. His vulnerability and genuine candor will move you. I have watched this video probably a dozen times and forced my dad to watch it this weekend. He too was in awe.

Bob tells me that he has good days and bad days. Sometimes he spends weeks at a time in a depressed state. I definitely caught Bob on a good day. No less than six people stopped by, I kid you not, and said hello to Bob while we chatted. Two or three of them made a specific comment about how happy he looked. I’d like to think I was a part of that, but he might just have been having a good day. If you were curious how many people stopped to say hello to the guy who gives away $10 every day…that number would be zero!

Ruth is Bob’s birth mother. Ann was the mother who raised him. Bob would like to know what happened to his birth mother Ruth Lucas (photo: Reed)He goes into a lot of detail about drug induced binges he embarked on in the 60s and 70s. “I just wanted to drink, shoot dope and have a little sex occasionally,” he told one psychologist in the early days of his recovery attempts. After dozens of failed attempts at sobriety he finally succeeded with the help of others and will be celebrating 24 years of sobriety on October 16th of this year. I asked him if I could see him on that day and he said that that would probably be OK. “So what’s the secret to finally beating the addiction,” I asked. Bob looked down for a second and then looked up and said, “Well, you just have to do two simple things: stop drinking and change your whole fucking life!” He managed a smile and laughed softly despite him realizing the bitter and all too familiar truth of what he had just said.

At one point a stunningly beautiful young woman stopped by and said hello to Bob. “Are you going to play piano tonight?” she asked referring to an open mic session at an outreach ministry-based coffee-house. She had hoped that maybe he would play some music that she was going to bring but Bob said he didn’t feel comfortable doing that. “I just know a few notes,” he humbly offered. “I was hoping to play a song tonight that I wrote. It’s a love song I wrote to my daughter. I love her so much.” He went on to tell me more about his daughter and it was so clear how much he loves and cares for her. He lives in the basement of her house but their relationship is clearly strained. He says that she has an alcohol addiction. “There is always hope, look at me. It took me 30 years though.”

I spent almost two hours with Bob. I learned so much and every topic we spoke about he had something interesting to contribute. I am so impressed with his overall attitude toward life. “Desire nothing and you will have everything,” he says referencing the teachings of St. John of the Cross. “Buddha said something similar, ‘Human desires are the cause of all human sufferings.’”

I caught a rare smile. Bob will use my $10 to help pay his rent. (photo: Reed)

I hope that you take the time to watch the video above. It’s worth it and if you know anyone who is struggling with an addiction or even well into recovery, I think they will find it very insightful. One thing he says about recovery at the end of the video that I think is priceless is, “It takes time and a lot of alcoholics don’t want to wait. It takes time, it’s a process, recovery is a process. They want what they want when they want it. They want it right now. They want 15 years of recovery in a month. It doesn’t work that way. You got to be patient.”

As we said goodbye he left me with a single thought. “Tell someone today that you love them.” Invaluable advice.

Harvey, 42, suffers from mental illness and has been homeless for about a year. (photo: Reed)

On any given night some 671,000 people in the United States, of which 5,320 are located in DC, are homeless according to the National Alliance to End Homelessness. Harvey is one of them.

I saw him sitting on the ground next to the entrance to McDonald’s on M Street between 19th and 20th Streets in Northwest. On his lap was a sign that read, “A man in need is a man without greed. Please help.” Next to him was a styrofoam container of food and a bag of personal items.

I met Harvey while he was eating lunch. (photo: Reed)

“I’ve been homeless here in DC for about a year now,” Harvey tells me as he eats some ribs that he purchased for his lunch. Originally from Lancaster, PA, Harvey said he came down to DC with the hope of a job but his plans were shot after being robbed at Union Station upon arriving here. “I lost everything I had – some $2,600 in cash.”

He says that he feels lucky in the sense that people often help him. “I usually get about $30 a day out here.” Harvey says that gets support from people from a wide range of socioeconomic backgrounds and races with one exception: Asians. “I don’t know why but Orientals never help me out.” He goes on to tell me that people who appear to be lower glass give more often than those who appear to be middle and upper class.

As we talked two people stopped to help Harvey out. One was a young attractive professional who dropped some coins in his cup as she walked by. The other was a British woman who stopped and asked if she could get him some food. A few minutes later Jane returned from the McDonald’s with a bag that contained a Big-Mac, fries and a chocolate milkshake. She even gave him the change from whatever amount she had used to pay for the food. I asked her why she helped and she said that she felt very fortunate and that the least she could do is help someone else out. “He’s down on his luck and I am able to help him out, that’s it.”

Harvey says that he has noticed that people’s response varies on the sign that he uses. “One time I had a sign that said, ‘Please spare help for a worthless piece of shit.’ I made $60 that day.” Although he was happy for the money he made that day, he stopped using the sign. “I’m not a worthless piece of shit though; it’s hard to sit here behind that sign when you know that isn’t the truth.”

photo: Reed

He says that being on the streets has taught him survival skills. “You have to take care of yourself, especially in the winter. You learn how to use things like cardboard to help you stay warm.” He also told me that he often has to shower in public fountains. “I just bought some soap today, I try to stay clean.”

Harvey, who says he has five sisters and three brothers, isn’t in regular contact with most of his family. “They don’t care about others.” He also doesn’t seem to have any friends in DC. “I don’t associate with too many people.”

He goes on to say that some of his challenges are a result of his mental illness. “Most homeless suffer from sort of mental problem or physical problem. I’m bipolar.” Harvey says that he has often thought about committing suicide. He doesn’t take any medication to help with his mental illness either.

He told me that he was going to use the ten dollars to get him some food over the next couple days and also buy a couple of beers for the evening. “I don’t do any drugs or hard liquor. The hard stuff makes me suicidal,” Harvey confessed.

I shook his hand and wished him luck. He mentioned some items that he needs and I have added them to the Lend a Hand page.

If you would like to help the homeless in Washington, DC, I encourage you to support your local Street Sense vendor or make a donation through their website.

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I gave $10 every day for a year. Would you make a $10 donation (that's less than 3 cents a day!) today to help those in need that I have met through the Year of Giving. You will get updates on how your donation is used.